My Friend, Harold Durby
by Mantinas
Summary: A coming of age story.


My Friend, Harold Durby

Disclaimer-All OCs belong to me, but everything else belongs to either Lovecraft or whomever owns them(i.e. locations and stuff).

This is based off of real events that have happened to a friend of mine. The impulse Harold has at the beach, the fish, and the dream. Everything else is fictional.

I

Harold Durby has been my friend since the age of six, having met in kindergarten. A non-native to Florida, unlike myself, he came from Massachusetts-though where has always alluded my mother and father since Harold's single mother always changed the subject.

He was a strapping brown haired, blue eyed ball of energy that it was a shock to all that he would befriend me, the class nerd-for at such a young age, I discovered the astounding information that knowledge can give. Yet, we were bound by a shared passion of the ocean. His wide knowledge and love of fish was beyond his years and was always spoken with such passion that it seemed as if he longed to swim beneath the waves forever. And as he grew, it was as if he believed he belonged there more than he did upon land and felt cursed to walk with us humans.

And I found myself feeling the same way. Though it was not put to question until his forties, the first sign should have been gleaned on his nineteenth year.

Walking along the lonely, early morning beach-our routine since starting high school together(though we graduated at this point)-found us gazing upon a lazy, gray sun rising out of the sea weed infested waves. Minor chit-chat and crashing waves pervaded our silence as gulls stretched their wings and took flight when, out of nowhere, Harold stopped in his tracks, head whipping towards the ocean, eyes cloudy and unfocused.

"Harold," I called, trying to gain his attention. "Harold!"

He took a stiff step towards the ocean, then another, his arms out to his side, palms facing forward like the Virgin Mary as his steps increased. I tugged at his sleeve to break this trance that was placed upon him.

We were a good fifteen feet out, the sand beneath us making the cresting waves come up just above his belt, being a couple inches taller than myself, when a whistle blew.

"Get out of the water!" The lifeguard called from his position on his tower.

I looked away from Harold at that moment to see the purple and red flag with a no swimming sign on it. Harold, having been brought back by the whistle, was the first to move back towards land.

Panting and chilled by the wind blowing across out wet clothing, I attempted to ask my friend what came upon him. Though he was crouched over, hands on knees, I could see on his face a sort of horror and shock that I have not seen on him before.

"Harold," I pushed. "What came over you?"

"You didn't hear it?" He asked, sounding surprised, covering up his fear.

"Hear what?"

"Then why did you go out with me?"

"I was trying to snap you out of it." I explained.

"Then you didn't hear it?"

"Hear what?"

He dismissed my question with a shake of his head. "Forget it, let's just go home."

I nodded, knowing better than to drop it, but also knowing that Harold would tell me when he's ready.

From then on he went to the beach a few more times, but after those times, it was strictly on the sand and never in the water. His claim was that fish kept bumping into him, which is not too unusual, for I have seen their glistening, silver bodies flash beneath the waves-but they never touched any of us, just Harold. Which made him nervous since he wouldn't hurt a fly on purpose, and the murky water doesn't offer much in the way of spying on them.

II

Many years pass in a blink of an eye and I find myself in an insurance company(1), while Harold is a marine biologist professor at the local University of Central Florida. In our mid-thirties, we find ourselves successful in our occupations, yet not so in our love life-a fact our mothers _love _to point out. Though not from a lack of trying, both Harold and myself have tried, but my girlfriends do not last long and, for some odd reason, girls seem to find Harold oddly repulsive. A fact I cannot grasp, for he is a handsome gentleman.

But we are content enough with our lives. Though, as was to be expected, since our income was good but not good enough for housing prices, we rented an apartment together.

But that veil was quick to be cast away from our eyes. For Harold, from what I could gather, he had night terrors. Screaming out insane verses in tongues befitting gibberish, yet sounded so calculated, so alien, that it hadn't crossed my mind that it couldn't be actual speech. Which frightened me a great deal.

And I had asked so frequently that it became routine that when he entered the small dining room that he sardonically stated-more than asked-that he had night terrors, of which I would groggily grunt in the affirmative.

Forty reaches us and it's like someone turned the volume off. Harold stopped the night terrors when he reached thirty six and a strange acceptance seemed to be permanently stuck on him, a great contrast to the tired and jumpy Harold that I knew during that time. A Harold who's mother would call begging me to pick him up from work because 'something was off'.

I didn't think much about it. Night terrors can be overcome, much like any phase of human development, that I was happy when this change occurred. Which then brought up an ancient mystery; the city in which he dwelled before coming to Florida.

"Innsmouth," He told me one day. "I'm from Innsmouth, Massachusetts. My mom finally told me."

"That's nice," I told him. "Any reason she told you this now?"

I did not mean for it to sound so rude, but one has to ask why wait so long to tell your son where it was he grew up. By waiting this long why not simply leaving him in the dark? Though not the best option, it seemed more practical then to tell him now. I was curious as any friend would be, though it made those attempts to find out more about the Durby's past seem asinine.

His face became unreadable, in deep thought, his features seemed almost fish like in the light.

"She said I need to go back. That I need to go back for a while to understand."

"Understand what?" Came my obvious question when he trailed off into silence.

"She didn't say."

"Well, when do you suppose you'll go?"

"This coming week. I know you have vacation time saved up, too. I'd like it if you came with me to see the place of my birth and to figure out what my mother meant."

I was happy that he would ask. Despite the fact that I never cared about that missing piece of Harold, I found myself curious about it now due to his mother's cryptic words.

III

Our first time on a plane and it was nothing like we expected. We boarded on time, but our plane was held fifteen minutes longer. I'm glad Harold had the window seat for, from what I saw out of it, I would have went into a panic attack. If man were meant to fly he would have wings.

For hours we were stuck up there with minor turbulence, boredom, and anxiety for what we will see once we get off in Boston where we would board a train into Arkham where a cab will need to be hailed for us to proceed into-what the internet called-a dying fishing town. From what we gathered, only a few people still lived there and many of the buildings were run down.

No wonder she left. But we were to go there no matter what. For whatever Ms. Durby meant, it was obvious it was eating away at Harold. But I did not push him for details, history has shown me that he will tell me when he's ready.

The train ride went off without a scene, but in Arkham, when we hailed a cab, the driver got out to open the back, passenger door when he looked at me then Harold.

"Goin' to Innsmouth, eh." He stated rather than asked.

"Yes," Harold asked. "How did you know?"

He did not answer, merely motioned for us to get in-which we did-and he got back to the front seat where he drove off without another word.

"You look like yer from there." The driver stated, looking at Harold.

Strange enough, I had not seen the physical changes from my friend. I suppose spending such a time with someone can allow you to not notice a few things. Like his eyes, they were a dull blue now instead of the vibrant orbs they used to be. His face was becoming rounder on the sides, flatter in the front, and red welts were where neck met shoulders.

He never looked that way before, and from what I gather, the people must always look like this. I was confused, but whenever either of us asked him anymore, he would remain silent. Though, when I mentioned that we shall remain there until Friday, he nodded his head and assured us he'd be there.

We reach Innsmouth by six in the afternoon, the sun already set and the dim glow of a crescent moon fills the night sky along with a plethora of stars you couldn't see in the city. In the dark Innsmouth looked like a deserted, ghost town-the houses and shops, as well as the odd church, looked worse for wear, giving the town an elephant graveyard appeal. The hotel our cab was stationed outside looked nice, yet drearily abandoned.

The cab driver then spoke once more to us. "Please feel free to chose your own rooms. The manager does not reside here anymore. And only two families remain here."

"Where is he?" Harold asked. "And why so few people?"

"Out at sea," And with that he got back in and drove back to Arkham.

With a stretch of paranoia, we climbed the steps in a solemn fashion more befitting a funeral procession than a march to your new-though for only a few days-home. The cab driver was correct, the front desk looked as if the manager had not packed up his things and headed out to sea, the only way to tell how long is to dust through layers of dust and cob-webs.

"Do you really suppose it's okay to stay here?" I asked.

"I don't like it either, but it was unlocked and from what I gather," he traced a finger along the banister that was against the far left wall as he ascended the stairs towards the rooms that resided up there. "He is not coming back. But don't worry, we'll check the log book if we can and give him the correct amount on Friday should he return."

I follow him up the steps and to the left there's a hallway with doors carved out of it. It's completely made of wood with generic pictures that adorn almost every hotel across the nation. Harold picks the last one on the left, closest to the end-hallway window which, no doubt, gives the hall its light since the lighting fixtures most likely don't work anymore-where as I picked the last on the right, a few feet away from the window.

Our rooms were like a carbon copy from one another; a twin bed, whose head rested against the right wall, across from that the window and a bedside table and another window facing the bed with a door that conjoins rooms to the left of the bed. Throwing my satchel down, I laid on the bed, my conscious still screaming this was wrong, but the very powerful need of sleep overpowered that urge and soon I found myself asleep.

The morning came upon us almost too soon, but with both windows letting the celestial orb in with glaring intensity due to dust, we woke up almost blinded.

After our short celebration and shouts from room to room that the water actually worked, we showered and headed outside, hopping to meet some of the locals and grab a quick bite to eat-having not eaten since lunch yesterday.

The town seemed to be cloistered together, tall brick buildings of which were, for the most part, dusty and abandoned with messy stores, one, a house, even had an upstairs bedroom in the living room. But such is the curse of time. Fortunately, the town is rather small, and as luck would have it one of the families was a baker, for their store was open and pleasant smells wafted from its ovens and like an arrow, hit the mark that was our noses.

The inside was styled into a turn of the century bakery with old looking ovens with bread, cakes, and other sweets in a glass case that doubled as a counter. The woman behind it was slightly round around the middle, though the reason came from a cherubic coo in a rocking cradle that she was stooped over. Her sunflower blonde hair was in a librarian's bun, her white apron splattered with spots of flour, jellies, and perhaps some genetic material that came from her baby girl.

"Hello, George, come to pick up more bread? Or is it something…"

She looks at us keenly, as if we were joined at the hip-a joke many people have said about us-or something. Then she smiles.

"Well, don't get many visitors around here anymore." She said, it was then that I noticed her features that were more pronounced than Harold's and her voice seemed to border on croaking, yet still managed to be cheerful.

"What brings you two boys to Innsmouth?"

"I'm Harold Durby, I was born here." Harold stated. I introduced myself before he continued. "My mom said I had to come back to find my roots."

"You're Alison's brat?" She said aghast. "Funniest thing in the world, that one-ran away. Her husband-your father-was so mad, he tore up your house." She leaned in closer when the baby sniffled from her mother's loud speaking. Brought their bedroom into the living room."

I was stunned, that house, the one I thought of as being worse for wear by time, was actually destroyed by Harold's father. What man could possibly do that? And if he can do that, what would he do to Harold? I pale at the thought but the object of my worrisome thoughts break me out of it.

"What happened to my father?" Harold asked in a manner as if he already knew.

"Went back, boy, went back. Nothing keeping him here and they can…" She spied me. "Does _he _know?"

Harold shook his head. "Not even I know."

She was taken aback. "Your mom ever told you?"

Harold shook his head.

"Figures, nothing right with that one." She mumbles off something then smiles again. "So, how long are you boys in Innsmouth?"

"Till Friday," Harold stated. "Just to see what I need to see."

"Well, come back here after closing, I'll tell you all you need to know. But come alone…We don't take well with outsiders, not like you're not, but you're more one of us than he is. No offense dear, it's habit."

I wasn't offended, merely surprised. Didn't she think Harold would tell me what she tells him? He had no real bond to this place like he did in Florida.

"Anyway, what would you boys like to eat? Don't got much, mostly we go to Ipswich to get supplies, but it's a ways, so I tried to lessen our travels by cooking a few things here." She then gasps in remembrance. "I almost forgot. My name's Henrietta."

We ordered our breakfast, ate it, then went on our way. The sights of Innsmouth worth seeing were few; a beach that leads to Devil's Cove the docks. But everything was in ill repair, obviously having been neglected by the town's remaining population-however many is uncertain, for we only met Henrietta and her baby.

IV

That night I was peacefully sleeping, dreams of sailing in violet skies, my crew and I lax upon the deck, the currents calm enough for daydreaming. But then a pale, blue hand grabbed onto my shoulder and shook me.

I woke up to Harold's hand gently shaking my shoulder. A grave expression brought out stress wrinkles, his eyes set in concentration. He sighed, never looking at me as he explained what happened previously.

"I saw the elusive George." He explained. "And their spouses."

He sighs before he continues:

"You see, Innsmouth was in a bind so they made a pact with these creatures called the Deep Ones. They gave the people fish in exchange for humans to mate with as well as human sacrifices. Henrietta and George are married to them; George even gave up his house and moved to Devil's Reef for her." He shook his head. "Still can't get over it; how can anyone love a thing like that?"

But you see, my mother was one of the few non-hybrids left."

"Hybrids?"

"I'll get to that," He said dismissively. "Anyway, my mom didn't like what she was married to. That it touched her. She had me and ran away-I think because she did not want him to hurt me like he does her. She always had him locked in the attic."

He laughs. "You see, my friend, those night terrors, I remember ever single one. Cyclopean structures of coral and sand in some of them. In others I see my relatives, alive and kicking as hybrid creatures with blue scales and fish features. I also saw my dad. I saw him run into the night, howling in rage all the while he headed back to Devil's Reef; where their city dwells. The first one was this horrible nightmare where you and I were on one of our morning walks when a giant wave crashed down on the both of us, sucking us out to sea. The problem was that you floated to the surface, but I was stuck mere feet away from it."

"It was scary, trying to hold in air, fighting to the top, only to discover that I can breathe. But my addled mind begs me to breach the surface, I tug on your pant leg and you notice me. You pull me up a little more then you shout out 'get away from me!' and let me go. My hand turned into a hybrid's clawed hand. I sink, fighting it as best I could until you're out of sight."

He finally looks at me. "Don't take this the wrong way, but the dreams of losing you were the worst."

I place a hand on his shoulder. "You won't lose me."

The thought of us ever parting never crossed my mind recently. True, the threat to friendship is usually high school, but we overcame that. We're still friends. And even though this story sounds convoluted, Harold was never good at acting. Something really spooked him.

"But you will," He counters. "Tonight my father is coming to take me to Y'ha-nthlei, their domain. I am to remain there until…"

He is cut off by the sound of something sharp scratching against glass. We both stare at either window, but whatever made that noise had disappeared. Harold stood tense.

"He's here, I have to go now."

"You're just going to leave me? After everything you're just going to leave?" I don't know where this is coming from. A part of me screams this should have been said sooner, but I suppose it was until that moment when the reality of the situation we found ourselves in finally sunk in.

He looks as if he'll cry. But then a thought comes to him.

"Tomorrow at Midnight…I'll meet you at the dock closest to Devil's Reef."

We embrace, silence prevails over all in that brief moment. He breaks away first and runs out into the night.

Sleep evades me the rest of the night.

V

The next day I hardly venture out into town. Partly because I dare not venture out into this cursed town. A town who's inhabitants, from what I gathered yesterday, did not like outsiders. Yet, strangely enough, I did not starve. Henrietta left goodies for me outside my door with a bill since I wrote on dusty stationary the room had left over that I could not take her charity.

Despite being lonely, a sense of anxiety crept over me, for midnight was drawing near.

At eleven thirty I ventured out into the night, the crescent moon illuminating my way towards the dock of which our meeting would take place.

Once there I only wait a minute until I hear the sound of splashing and a thud of something landing on the dock a few feet behind me. I turn, expecting to see my friend to be as I remembered from last night. But alas, he is not and with a gasp I take him all in.

Naked as the day he was born, his body covered in pale, robin eggshell blue, his stomach a pale white. His two eyes have enlarged and have become pitch black orbs. His lips have become fish-like, his gums holding rows of sharp teeth, framed nicely on his hairless head; hair being replaced with frills like that of fish fins. Yet, despite the fish-like qualities, it seemed that amphibian qualities were also present.

He walks towards me in an awkward gait on his webbed toes until he is close enough to cup my cheek with his webbed, right hand.

The gesture was merely for comfort and reassurance that he was still himself. I grasped his hand with my own and he lets out a purr-like hiss.

"Friend," He croaks, his voice coming out even more awkward than his gait, as if his vocal cords were not made for such a feat, yet was able to anyway. "Missed you."

"Missed you, too, Harold." I admitted.

"Go back to Florida. Follow you." He growls. "Others hate outsiders. Unless willing to mate with Deep One…"

He looked at me with what, to the average person, would look like a blank stare due to his black eyes. But from knowing him for as long as I have I caught the apprehension in his voice.

"No, nothing against you, Harold. But I'd rather not."

He made a sound that I guessed was their way of sighing, and in his case; it was in relief.

"Will go Florida, too. But…Some days I come back here." He grimaced as best he could with fish lips. "Voice…Will better."

I pat him on the shoulder. A low growl erupts from below us.

"Dad!" Harold hisses, his frills on his head tense up in warning. But he pays his son no heed and I hear a thump. I gaze upon his father-a pale, green, hulking sea monster-and faint.

VI

I travel back to Florida by hiking the way to Ipswich and hail a cab back to Boston where I fly back home and go about my business in minor isolation; breaking my hermitic lifestyle to go to work. I move up the corporate ladder allowing me to afford my new house on the beach. A house isolated from others. Others with prying eyes and curious souls.

It's a house where a dear, old friend can visit from his home in the sea and no one would ever be the wiser.

()()()

1) A reference to the protagonist in "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" who received a job as such before he learns the horrifying truth about his family.

Completed: Jan 27, 2011 at 6:47PM. Started: I don't remember…But it's taken a few days.


End file.
